Death is an Artist.
His brush paints sorrow into hope.
He guides the lost soul through the ends of the universe, where infinite time creates finite glories.
The canvas of life seems endless, but He is there, for all good things must come to an end.
The brush strokes bring the painting to life.
Some are gentle, delicate little things.
Each breath is fragile.
One quiver is enough to send it crumbling to dust.
But His steady hand traces every pencil mark, every pre-illustrated sketch, until it is finished.
The paint does not need to breathe.
The world stands still for a moment.
And some are violent.
Slashes across the canvas.
Scarlet and crimson on white.
Shadow looming in the corner.
Each stroke cuts like knives.
Splatters.
Messy, but quick.
Or not.
Very few guidelines.
Only a finished product in mind.
Only the brush beating red until there's no more red to beat out of it.
And each canvas is unique.
Many are filled with oceans and bluebells and the night sky.
Others are grey and blank. Indifferent.
Some were faster than others.
And some needed only a crayon and a leaf to leave its mark.
But in the end, they are all the same, for without the painter, the work is meaningless.
